A Stroke of Luck (14 page)

"You took me by surprise," went on Stump, absently wiping the blade on the sleeve of the freshly pressed coat that hung on the armoire door.

Surprise was putting it mildly, thought the duke. Several glasses of his uncle's finest French brandy, five cantos of Dante's
Inferno
and a half dozen of Mozart's piano etudes had done little to soothe his unsettled frame of mind. And his sleep had been short and fitful, even though he had not sought his bed until well after midnight.

Why that should be, he could not fathom. The headstrong hellion had been unjust in her accusations. His presence at Highwood Manor had an innocent explanation, if she had bothered to ask. Instead, she had assumed the worst of him...

He shifted in his chair, drawing a sharp rebuke from Stump. "Stop squirmin' like a stuck pig, else you'll end up with your windpipe sliced clean through."

"It might put me out of my misery," grumbled the duke. Fending off any further foray of the honed steel, Prestwick rose and toweled off his chin. "The thought of having to confront a feisty female before I have a chance to enjoy my pot of coffee and one of Monsieur Henri's special omelets is enough to cause an unsettling ache in my stomach."

The sight of the slurry of suds and shaved whiskers upon his brand new hunter green superfine also made him slightly sick, but he swallowed any comment on the ruined garment. "On second thought, I think I shall wear the navy merino instead. It is a better complement to the biscuit shade of my breeches."

"Biscuit? Now you have started my own breadbox growlin' for breakfast." Stump pursed his lips. "Biscuit, fawn, buff—they all look like a damn light brown to me. But I know better than to argue with your refined taste in color."

His hand shot out and deftly removed the requested coat from its place. "The navy it is."

Knotting a last, intricate loop in the length of starched linen, the duke finished tying his cravat and headed for the door, though in truth, he had little appetite for what undoubtedly was going to be a heated confrontation. After a few steps, however, his teeth set. He could weather the storm as long as the young lady confined herself to hurling insults at his head. But if she dared cast aspersions on the flaky croissants he had ordered his French chef to prepare, the ensuing thunder and lightning would be more than a mere tempest in a teapot!

His stomach growled in loud agreement.

Knowing his aunt's utter lack of taste in cuisine as well as clothing, he had made sure that the temperamental tyrant of his London kitchen had been asked to made the trip north. The sea voyage had nearly prompted a mutiny. Any further assault on the fellow's finely honed sensibilities would likely result in a scorching display of Gallic fury—not to speak of what would happen to the roast beef.

Taking the stairs two at a time, Prestwick was halfway down the corridor leading to the breakfast room when a loud crash, followed by several lesser thumps, sounded from behind the door of the library.

What new squall was brewing? he wondered. Biting back an irritated oath, he decided he had best check that no real disaster was imminent before sitting down to his cup of Jamaican coffee. His steps ground to a halt and his hand reached out for the brass latch.

Whatever he had expected to find behind the paneled oak, it was not the figure of Perry perched precariously at the very top of the shelves, one hand clinging to the rung of the varnished ladder, while the other clutched the remains of a tooled leather binding.

"I—I didn't mean to ruin it," stammered the lad, his face ashen with remorse. "It was heavier than I thought."

His gaze dropped to survey the jumble of torn paper that had fallen onto the parquet floor, along with a handful of smaller volumes that had managed to remain undamaged. "You may put me to work to repay the cost of it."

Prestwick quietly closed the door behind him and went to retrieve the split signatures of foolscap that had ripped free of the covers. "The Frogs, by Aristophanes," he read from the title page.

"The maid left the door open after dusting," croaked Perry. "I had never seen so many beautiful books in one place before, so I thought there was no harm in having a closer look." His voice became very small. "Then I spotted that one on the top shelf. I have always wanted to read it, and..."

His words trailed off in a ragged hiccup of remorse. "You may go ahead and birch me, sir. I know I richly deserve it for wrecking such an expensive book."

"Hmmm." The duke flipped through the pages, then let them fall shut. "Actually it is not worth the leather it was bound in. It is a remarkably shoddy piece of scholarship, with all sorts of grammatical errors. I daresay the collection is much improved without it."

With a casual shrug, he tossed it over his shoulder.

Perry's mouth formed a silent 'O' as his eyes grew as large as gold buttons on Harold's swallowtail coat.

"Now, Aueltman's edition—the one there, to the right of your hand—is the definitive text of the playwright's works.
That
is the one you should be looking at." Stepping onto the lower rungs of the ladder, he plucked both the book and the boy from their places and carried them over to the immense desk by the mullioned windows.

Turning the pages to the first act, he ran a finger under the opening lines. "Did you know that Aristophanes is considered the father of comedy?"

Perry, still mute with surprise, could only nod.

"He was a master of comic satire and biting humor, not only in
The Frogs
but in such other works as
The Birds
,
The Clouds
and
Lysistrada
." Satisfied that he had appeared suitably knowledgeable, Prestwick leaned back with a small smile.

"He was also a sharp critic of Athenian politics and culture after the start of the Peloponnesian War in 431 B.C., and the death of Pericles in 429 B.C." The lad had recovered enough of his voice to add a footnote to the duke's explanation.

Prestwick's expression turned to one of wry bemusement. "Er, yes. That's exactly right."

Perry's eyes were now glued to the printed page, saying each word under his breath as he labored over the lines the duke had indicated.

"It is pronounced more like this," corrected Prestwick, taking care to go over the syllable in question several times.

"Ah." Perry repeated it perfectly, a boyish grin sneaking across his countenance. "Thank you, sir. One can never tell when knowing how to say "frog" in Greek will come in handy."

The duke chuckled in answer, then pulled a face. "Speaking of frogs, I am afraid I must hurry to breakfast. My French chef may threaten to burn the kitchen along with the toast and Yorkshire gammon if I allow his
oeufs aux champignon
to get cold."

Shooting one last, wistful look at the page, Perry reluctantly closed the book and made to slide off the chair.

"That does not mean you cannot stay and look over the book for as long as you like."

The lad stared at him in disbelief. "I may?"

"Of course you may. Indeed, you may make use of any volume in the library. If there is one you cannot reach, ring for one of the footmen and he shall give you a hand."

After voicing his profuse thanks, Perry slanted a shy glance upward. "I—I don't suppose you might want to read it together, so that you might help me..." Suddenly aware of the temerity of the request, his cheeks colored and he rushed on. "Of course, a duke must be awfully busy, and besides, you have read it before, and—"

"A classic is like an old friend, lad. It is always a pleasure to renew acquaintances. I should be very pleased to help you work out the nuances of Aristophanes."

In truth, the duke was more than pleased. By virtue of his lofty title, he had been cozened, flattered and complimented by all manner of people, most looking for some advantage in aligning themselves with the powerful Prestwick name. But to have a lad ask in such honest appeal for his help and guidance touched him to the very core.

Covering his emotion with a gruff cough, Prestwick took a peek at his pocketwatch. "After breakfast, I have several things to attend to with my secretary, but we could meet here at, say, eleven." He couldn't resist adding, "Unless you are otherwise engaged?"

"No, sir," came the solemn answer. "I have no other plans for the day."

"Good. Then we shall see if we can catch up with
The Frogs
."

The duke found himself whistling a rousing aria from Handel's Water Musik as he made for the door, even though he had a sneaking suspicion that the eldest Greeley was going to prove a good deal more slippery to handle.

Chapter 8

"No."

"Must you always be so deucedly stubborn, Miss Greeley?"

"And must you always be so deucedly arrogant, Your Grace?" she countered.

Prestwick forked up the last bit of his omelet before replying. She had, at least, not launched any of the still-warm croissants in his direction, though the one on her plate had been reduced to a pile of buttery crumbs.

"I was merely trying to be of help. However, if you wish to flounder along on your own, at the risk of falling easy prey to whatever sharks may be prowling the waters, that is your choice." He broke off a chunk of the flaky pastry and slathered on a helping of strawberry jam. "Though it would be an extremely stupid one."

She speared a piece of broiled kidney, looking as though she wished it was his own vital organ impaled upon her knife. "Why?" she demanded, after dicing the morsel into a fine hash.

"Why is it stupid?"

"No," she said through clenched teeth. "Why are you offering to help?"

"Because, whether you believe it or not, underneath the fancy tailoring that you deride, I am not completely bare of honor. I wish to ensure that Uncle Aubrey's estate goes to the rightful heir."

"Even if that is not your cousin?" Her tone was as sharp as one of Monsieur Henri's cleavers.

"Yes, Miss Greeley." He was having trouble keeping the edge off his own voice. "Even if it means that Harold's suit is denied."

"Prestwick!" Lady Farrington sailed into the room with all the force of a four-deck ship of the line, the flapping of her skirts creating a breeze that sent ripples across the tablecloth. "What is the meaning of this? Why is that odious man of yours asking to see Aubrey's papers?"

The duke put down the remainder of his croissant, finding that he was fast losing his patience, along with his appetite. "Because I asked him to, Aunt Hermione. I am having him review all of the documents pertaining to this matter before Uncle Aubrey's lawyers arrive."

"Hmmph!" After loading up with a bountiful selection from the silver chafing dishes—including the last three croissants, noted the duke with a baleful grimace—she sat down and shook out her napkin with a loud snap. "A waste of time. The facts are clear as a church bell. You will see that it is all just a formality, and the matter of succession will quickly be settled once and for all."

"Then there can be no objection to Symonds taking a look."

Finding herself outmaneuvered, his great aunt fell silent, contenting herself with shooting a disgruntled glare at Zara as she dug into her poached eggs.

Prestwick noted out of the corner of his eye that the Admiral of the Amazons showed no sign of being intimidated by a much larger adversary.

"Do consider my suggestion, Miss Greeley, and let me know what you decide," he murmured as he rearranged his silverware.

Lady Farrington's hearing proved as keen as her appetite. The fork hovered in mid air and her gaze took on the sharpness of a knife blade. "What suggestion?"

"Why, that his secretary undertake to make some inquiries into the Greeley claim," answered Harold as he slid into his chair and motioned for a fresh pot of tea to be brought out. "An excellent idea, Twick," he said with a knowing smirk. "Bringing your influence to bear on the matter should help resolve things up in a trice, eh?"

His grandmother relaxed enough to resume her attack on a slab of beefsteak.

Harold's attention then turned to Zara. "Miss Greeley, I have never seen quite that shade of color before." He raised his quizzing glass and leaned in a bit closer. "Tell me, what do you call it—vagabond brown?"

Prestwick was about to fire off a warning shot at his cousin, but the young lady quickly showed she was capable of manning her own guns.